"They'm dead," put in Zeb, curtly.

"They lashed themselves, thinking the foremast would stand till
daylight. I climbed down half an hour before it went. I tell you
what, though; my legs are too cramped to move. If you want to save me
you must carry me."

"I was thinkin' the same. Well, come along; for tho' I don't like the
cut o' your jib, you'm a terrible handsome chap, and as clean-built as
ever I see. Now then, one arm round my neck and t'other on the line,
but don't bear too hard on it, for I doubt 'tis weakish. Bless the
Lord, the tide's running."

So they began their journey. Zeb had taken barely a dozen strokes when
the other groaned and began to hang more heavily on his neck. But he
fought on, though very soon the struggle became a blind and horrible
nightmare to him. The arm seemed to creep round his throat and strangle
him, and the blackness of a great night came down over his eyes.
Still he struck out, and, oddly enough, found himself calling to his
comrade to hold tight.

When Sim Udy and Elias Sweetland dashed in from the shore and swam to
the rescue, they found the pair clinging to the line, and at a
standstill. And when the four were helped through the breakers to firm
earth, Zeb tottered two steps forward and dropped in a swoon, burying
his face in the sand.

"He's not as strong as I," muttered the stranger, staring at Parson
Babbage in a dazed, uncertain fashion, and uttering the words as if they
had no connection with his thoughts. "I'm afraid--sir--I've broken--his